


Like Water in the Desert

by MajorTrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cherry Blossoms, Flowers, I made myself sad, Language of Flowers, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major character death - Freeform, blood mention, philosophical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: It was beautiful. Everything about the day was slow and tranquil and moved in ways that seemed otherworldly. It was as if a perfect moment had been carved out of time and laid bare. Jaskier felt as if his whole world - his whole life - had been leading up to this one stolen moment of peace.--------------------------
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fiction Challenge #017





	Like Water in the Desert

Jaskier lay in the meadow at the edge of the woods, staring up at the trees. The light filtered down through the flickering leaves as they were ruffled by the wind. The bunches of white flowers that grew in clumps along the branches danced along, the delicate petals drifting down as the wind blew them loose. They landed in his hair, on his clothes, and all around him. In fact, the forest floor was littered with them, making it look almost like drifts of snow had settled there. 

It was beautiful. Everything about the day was slow and tranquil and moved in ways that seemed otherworldly. It was as if a perfect moment had been carved out of time and laid bare. Jaskier felt as if his whole world - his whole life - had been leading up to this one stolen moment of peace.

Despite the heat of the sun, Jaskier shivered. The dew of the grass beneath him was slowly seeping into the thin cotton of his shirt and making it stick to his skin. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, but it clung to the edge of his thoughts like a burr. Like a reminder that the moment couldn’t last forever, no matter how long he tried to stretch it. 

In the distance he could hear something, some sound that teased at the edge of memory. But a small part of him whispered that _that way lay pain_ so he dismissed it, concentrating instead on the blossoms above him. 

He remembered, back when he was young, his mother showing him a branch from a cherry tree. One of the farmers had brought it in with the usual provisions to the house, lightning having struck the tree itself, killing its core. The rest of the tree would be hacked apart, given to those who’d make use of its wood, but this branch was covered in blossoms, and the farmer had gifted it to his mother instead of throwing it away. 

“These are cherry blossoms, Julian,” she’d told him as she carefully set it upright in a large vase. Filling the bottom with water, he had helped her brace the branch with the sturdy stems of flowers from the garden. Hydrangea and dahlias, peonies and daffodils. It was a riot of colour around the delicate white blossoms. “In the language of flowers they represent the fleeting nature of our lives. They remind us that we are all ephemeral.”

He’d stared at them for a long time after that. Watching as the petals dropped, one by one.

The sounds were getting closer now, and he thought he could make out voices. The petals were sticking to his cheeks and he realized he was crying. Life was fleeting, he knew this. So when he’d left the comforts of home, and then left the prestige of graduating from Oxenfurt, he’d grabbed his life by both hands and shook it, hoping that adventure would fall out. 

Surprisingly, it had. He’d met a Witcher. A _Witcher_ , of all people, in a tavern, brooding in the dark. He’d been ecstatic, calling it a fortuitous meeting. Geralt had called it a coincidence. Then they’d been kidnapped by elves, the very first of a long line of adventures he would spin into tales, much to Geralt’s unending annoyance. There had been some disagreements, and some more _brooding_ , but eventually, after _years_ of companionship, they’d become friends. Good friends. Then, more than friends. 

A cough shook him, rattling his lungs and making his whole body tense with pain. 

Geralt had been the first real love he had ever felt. It made his heart sing to be near him and ache to be apart and he knew that was a cliche he should have shrugged off - he was a _professional_ , damnit - but it was true. Then the stoic Witcher had admitted his own feelings towards Jaskier and everything had felt right. Everything had clicked into place and he’d felt _whole_. Loved. _Wanted_. 

It was a heady feeling. To be wanted. To be held and cared for and _cherished_. Jaskier had believed for a long time that the love he sang about in songs was not for him. He’d had plenty of lovers, trysts, and people who he thought he’d loved, but it had all been fleeting. No one wanted to keep him. No one until Geralt. 

It took him a while to believe it was real. Despite his own willingness to fall in love quickly and with no thought to the consequences, he’d been suspicious of Geralt’s feelings. It was with cautious optimism that he began to accept that this taciturn man had chosen him.

The wind was picking up and he shivered again. The day was beginning to wane, the perfect moment draining away as the petals swirled around his head. He let his mind focus on them and not on the heavy sound of footsteps that were rushing towards him. The white petals were nearly pink at the edges, stained by the dark stamens at their centers. They drifted back and forth through the air, swaying to a dance, to a rhythm, that only they could feel.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” someone said his name beside him and he forced his head to move, his eyes to focus. Geralt was kneeling beside him, covered in blood and gore, his sword haphazardly dropped in the grass beside him. Jaskier absently noted that the petals that landed on the blade instantly soaked up the blood, turning dark red as they stuck.

_“_ Fuck, _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt’s voice broke on his name. Hands touched him, gently, and suddenly his whole body was one horrible throb of pain. “No, no, no, no, no, I _told you_ to stay back. _Fuck._ ”

Jaskier tried to raise his arm. He wanted to comfort his friend, his love. But he was so tired. He coughed again, diaphragm spasming, and gasped at the tearing, driving pain. 

It wasn’t dew soaking into his shirt.

“You fool. You shouldn’t have been here. I should have been faster! I can’t - “ Geralt’s voice caught on a sob and Jaskier felt his heart lurch in his chest. 

The light was fading around him. But he couldn’t tell if it was because the sun was setting. Hadn’t it just been morning?

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s all right. Not your fault.” His once strong voice was nothing but a tattered thread of its former self. It made him wince, and even that small movement sent pain singing through his nerves. His breathing was ragged now, and he felt as if he couldn’t catch his breath. 

Geralt’s hand was so warm where it was wrapped around his. He tried to squeeze his fingers, to reassure him, but nothing was cooperating. Everything felt like pain and the cold was dragging him down into its depths. 

He didn’t want to leave Geralt. Didn’t want this to be his last memory. But the cherry blossoms rippled overhead like leaves caught in a stream. 

“ _We’re all ephemeral_.”

He closed his eyes. 


End file.
